The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

  The Secret Island

  OF

  EDGAR DEWITT

  Ferrill Gibbs

  Amberjack Publishing

  New York, New York

  Amberjack Publishing

  228 Park Avenue S #89611

  New York, NY 10003-1502

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ferrill Gibbs

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Gibbs, Ferrill, author.

  Title: The Secret island of Edgar Dewitt / Ferrill Gibbs.

  Description: New York, NY: Amberjack Publishing, 2017.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-944995-21-8 (pbk. | 978-1-944995-35-5 (ebook) | LCCN 2017931881

  Subjects: LCSH Friendship--Fiction. | Fathers and sons--Fiction. | Survival--Fiction. | Washington (State)--Fiction. | Forest fires--Fiction. | Indian Ocean--Fiction. | Fantasy fiction. | BISAC YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary

  Classification: LCC PZ7.G339218 Se 2017 | DCC [Fic]--dc23

  Cover Design: Emma Graves

  One

  Edgar Dewitt found a hole through the Earth two weeks after his fourteenth birthday. It was late summer then, and the sun was blistering with no clouds in the sky and no rain in the forecast.

  On his first day in Mount Lanier, Edgar and his family walked downtown, window shopping in the strange mountainside village. It was nothing like back home in Bon Secour, Alabama.

  “It’s so . . .” mused Edgar’s dad, straining for the right word.

  “Grizzly Adams,” blurted his mom, snorting, then abruptly quieting herself lest someone nearby hear her disparage their town.

  It was true, though. Even the McDonald’s was basically a log cabin. Edgar stared at the big golden “M” towering in front and wondered if they used moose meat.

  Behind the McDonald’s sat a string of mountains. Edgar stared at them as they walked. He studied them top to bottom same as he’d done the whole ride up from Denver. They were angular against the Western sky, and in the dusk seemed like black, jagged fangs. They were magnificent. Majestic. He had never seen a mountain before, not outside of a textbook, anyway.

  “Let’s get milkshakes,” said his mother.

  She grabbed him by the back of the neck and began to veer him toward the ice cream parlor. The parlor, also something out of an old western, was dead for a Saturday afternoon.

  The antique bell on the door of the parlor announced their arrival.

  “How do ya do?” asked the shopkeeper, a large man with silvery hair. He studied the Dewitts as they corralled around the display.

  “Y’all have good malts here?” asked Edgar’s father, completely lost in the selection of ice creams. Edgar’s dad was a non-reformed chocaholic. The old shopkeeper nodded sternly.

  Edgar heard the distinct sounds of an arcade through the parlor walls.

  “Mom,” he whispered. “Can I go next door really quick?”

  “But . . . what about the milkshakes?”

  “Just order me something.”

  “OK,” she said, sending him rushing for the door. “But don’t be gone long!”

  Once outside, Edgar stepped toward the adjacent shop. The place was called Al Capone’s, a weird name for sure, but then again, everything in this town was weird.

  He slipped his hands into his pockets to feel around for money. There were a lot of games through the window that he recognized, a lot of the same ones they had back in Alabama, but no Nitro Streak.

  “Nice jeans,” muttered a voice just down the way.

  “Huh?” said Edgar, turning. Somehow he hadn’t seen a group of kids about his age huddling at the front door of the arcade. Edgar nodded nervously and blew off the remark, then turned back to the window. He was suddenly self-conscious as they giggled and murmured about him. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks. Nerves danced in his gut.

  “Nice jeans,” repeated the voice, this time a little louder.

  “I heard you the first time,” said Edgar.

  “Nice jeans!” the voice hollered.

  Edgar looked over and squinted, straining to see past the glare of the streetlight. Emerging from the group was a rail thin kid, whose hollowed-out eyes were shaded from two bony, protruding cheekbones. He glared at Edgar. Edgar shrugged back.

  “I really,” the angry kid continued, “really like the way you roll them up at the bottom. It looks super cool.” He pointed at Edgar’s jean rolls as the crowd of kids at the arcade door exploded into hysterics.

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Edgar, shrugging again. The boy continued to glare at Edgar with clear, aqua blue eyes. Edgar looked beyond him. He surveyed the kid’s group. There were a lot of them, maybe eight. A few guys, a few girls, one of whom stood at the back of the pack and peered at Edgar with a set of gorgeous brown eyes.

  She was not laughing like the others.

  For a moment, he was so captivated by her that he was almost unable to look away, suddenly forgetting the bully who stood before him. The girl’s waist-length hair was mocha in color, and her lip gloss sparkled in the light like gold flakes in the Arkansas River.

  “I just wanted to tell you about your jeans,” continued the bully. Edgar snapped out of it and focused his gaze on the kid again. The guy’s fists were clenching and unclenching, painting the picture of a total psycho. “The rolls, I mean. That’s real, real niiice.” He blurted the last part through half laughter, half very bad southern accent—apparently mocking Edgar’s Alabamian drawl.

  “Got it,” said Edgar, shrugging for a third time, “if you say so.” He turned and went back to fake-staring through the window of the arcade. “Thanks for letting me know,” he added.

  “You’re welcome, pussy bitch,” said the boy.

  “Edgar?” Ever so fortunately, Edgar’s mother stuck her head out of the ice cream parlor at just the right time, except all the kids giggled when she called his name.

  All except for the mocha-haired girl.

  “Coming,” he answered, and as he walked up the stairs to join her, he tried to hold his head high.

  “Coming, Mommy!” sang the thin boy behind him, just loud enough for everyone to hear. At that, everyone giggled once more.

  Everyone but the mocha-haired girl.

  __________

  “Sure is,” said the shopkeeper, apparently in deep conversation with Edgar’s dad. It was typical. Edgar’s father was a terribly sociable person.

  “The longest drought ever?” asked Mr. Dewitt.

  “You bet,” nodded the man. Edgar walked up to the counter and joined them. “It’s killing the crops,” the man added, “depleting the water supply. The worst drought we’ve ever seen. Everyone’s miserable here if you haven’t noticed. Been forever since a good rain.”

  “Hmm,” said Edgar’s father, looking down, noticing Edgar. “Hey man!” he smiled. “How’s the arcade?”

  “Sucky,” he muttered.

  “Fantastic!” said his father, winking at the shopkeeper. “All the mo
re time to study, then.”

  Edgar’s mom reached over and tousled Edgar’s hair. She gazed down at him warmly. “I haven’t ordered for you yet.”

  “Can I get a mocha shake?” he asked the shopkeeper, unable to get the girl out of his mind. As the shopkeeper made his shake, he bent and unrolled his jeans, and as he did, he thought of his friends back home, the older boys who’d taken him under his wing and shown him how to do everything: to roll cords, to pull in a massive tuna without breaking the line, and how to roll his jeans the way they did, in tightly bound folds, as was the style over there.

  Unrolling them now, each unraveling felt like a betrayal. It was an assault to the very warm memories he held for all of them. Tears came to his eyes. He blinked them away.

  He was in for a rough time here in Mount Lanier, it seemed.

  “You know,” said Edgar’s father, addressing the shopkeeper, “I thought it was supposed to rain all the time here in Washington. Isn’t it one of the rainiest places in America?”

  “Climate change,” frowned the man.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. How else does a drought happen so late in September, here in Washington, of all places? Same thing’s been going on everywhere—hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts. You noticed that? Why, I’ll bet you know a little something about hurricanes, too. Didn’t you say you all were from Alabama?”

  “Yes and yes,” said Edgar’s dad, frowning. “We’ve seen enough storms for a lifetime.” He glanced at Edgar and then his wife. She took a big, thoughtful sip of her green mint shake.

  “Like I said,” continued the shopkeeper, still wiping. “I’ll take a hurricane by now if the rain doesn’t come soon. We’ve got big trouble a-brewing. They’ll extend the wildfire season an extra month if we don’t get rain soon, and that’s the last thing we need around here. Another wildfire.”

  Once Edgar and his parents had collected their plastic spoons and straws and said their goodbyes to the shopkeeper, they exited the shop. Edgar’s heart raced as he prepared to face the mean kids again, but, fortunately, they were gone. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and calmed his thudding heart, following his parents up the road toward their new home on the north side of the town. As they strolled through the dry, late-summer air, he kicked the last of his jean rolls straight and looked over his shoulder to glimpse the dark, stark, jagged Cascades to the west. They sure were something.

  Two

  The woods behind the new house were dry and crackly and, stepping through them, Edgar turned down a slight hillside in a direction he had not yet explored. Using his arms for balance, he zigzagged down a decline into a greenish, wooded valley below, where he suddenly found before him a babbling brook partly hidden by trees and shrubs. Clear, cool mountain water bubbled and gurgled over miniature falls that trickled sweetly through the trees, pooling up around a few mountain rocks every few feet or so. Edgar could tell by the deep cuts in the valley how wide the brook normally was, and how much higher, and noticed that tree roots had emerged in the valley walls like stairs.

  The drought had certainly taken its toll.

  He hopped across the rocks through the center of the valley, when suddenly, a few skittish fish darted beneath his feet.

  Rainbow trout! He’d never caught a rainbow trout before. The next day, when he came back, that would surely change.

  Then, from the corner of his eye, something brown came into view through a patch of alder leaves to his right. Just as a hot gust blew through, the leaves revealed the structure like a theater curtain. Keeping his balance on the rocks, he slowly peeled back the leafy partition and squinted through the leaves. There, in a slight clearing, was an old, broken-down cabin that looked like a slaughterhouse from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, only smaller and less threatening. Ever so cautiously, he stepped from the rocks and began to move through the branches toward the building, motivated now by abject curiosity.

  Out in the sunshine, free of the thicket, he beheld the cabin with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Hello?” he said loudly, but no one answered. Of course no one’s gonna answer. What the heck would anyone be doing way out here? He looked around the clearing, scanning for signs of movement. He moved closer in, entranced. The windows on either side of the door were practically glassless with a few foggy shards remaining like dangling teeth in a rotten mouth. The hot wind whistled through the gaps in the wood where termite holes had turned everything into a honeycomb.

  “Hello?” he said again, but received no response. OK, just had to make sure. This might just make an adequate hangout if it’s not too rotten on the inside.

  He paused with his hand on the ancient, rusty doorknob, and thought of the backwoods cabins back home in Alabama. Back home you sometimes came upon a structure while out exploring but you never went in since there were just too many stories of crazy old men with shotguns and mean, ferocious dogs, or just plain old copperhead snakes. Not to mention ghosts.

  Finally, when he mustered his courage enough, Edgar turned the rusty knob and the door groaned open. He ducked into the dark, creepy opening, and before his eyes could even acclimate, a strange smell hit his nose. The smell took his breath away, not that it was bad, but it was just strange, unidentifiable—like something musty and warm. It definitely didn’t fit the setting.

  Rubbing his eyes to focus, a strong, hot gust from the valley slammed the door shut, and he nearly soiled himself. Once his thundering heart calmed, he surveyed the dark room again and took a timid step forward. Beneath his feet, the floorboards creaked and moaned. Once again, just like a horror movie.

  The building was bare except for loads and loads of cobwebs, all draped across the wooden rafters above. There was no furniture, no pots, no pans, and no stove. Just a plain, old, funky room.

  The decay of the logs and the strong, weird smell indicated that nobody had lived there for quite some time. Which was great.

  Edgar turned a few circles and smiled big. Yes, this would make a great hangout.

  Suddenly, something made him stop spinning. What was that? He cocked his head sideways to listen. It was a strange, eerie sound—something faint, constant, and nearby. Something below.

  Listening as deeply as he could, concentrating hard enough to drown out the distant screech of two red-tailed hawks in an argument above, he closed his eyes tight and cocked his head further sideways until, finally, there it was. He looked down. From beneath the floorboards emerged a faint, strange sound. A strange whistling.

  It was air. Whistling air.

  Hot air, his ankles told him, and that’s when he realized the gust had been licking at his ankles all along. He took another big sniff.

  The rising air was definitely responsible for the strange, unidentifiable smell.

  “Is there a basement down there?” he asked aloud, squatting to the floor. He squinted through the cracks and rubbed his chin but could see nothing. It was far too dark between the cracks to see.

  Closing an eye, he peered deeper into the crack but to no avail. He stretched his hand to the floor and could feel the draft of air coming up. His cell phone rang violently in his pants pocket, almost giving him a heart attack. He nearly toppled over sideways.

  “Hey Mom,” he said breathlessly into the phone. “No ma’am,” he muttered, “I haven’t died yet.” He decided not to mention the cabin. There’s no way she’d ever let me come back here.

  As he listened to her go on about how she registered him for school the next day—how she was holding his new schedule of advanced classes in hand (and consequently, he better get ready to study his butt off)—he rose from the floor and yanked a pack of Big League Chew from his back pocket and stuffed an oversized wad into his mouth.

  “Mom,” he said, smacking, “please. Can we not talk about school today? This is the last day of summer. I just want to check out the Indian Hills behind that old-timey McDonald’s.
Yeah, the one with the moose meat.”

  Holding the phone against his ear with a shoulder, he lowered himself to a knee and waved a palm over the floorboards. Where is that air coming from? He slumped to both knees and, with one hand, stuffed the rest of the pouch into his mouth and nodded.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I swear to God on your future grave I won’t get killed in the woods. Not by drifters or bears or swarms of hornets. Just let me . . .” He flicked the empty Big League Chew wrapper across the room and it did the most amazing thing: it played air hockey . . . with itself.

  Instantly it was caught upon the uprising air and floated all the way across the room, then bumped into the opposite wall and bounced back, returning to Edgar’s outstretched hands. It never even touched the floor.

  “Yes ma’am,” he muttered into the phone. “I’m still here.” He stood and dusted off his knees and stuffed the wrapper back into his pocket. “Just let me check out a few more things, OK?” he asked. “I promise I’ll be home for dinner. Just a couple more hours.”

  He hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket, then inhaled deeply, experiencing the musty, warm odor again. So strange. It was salty, like the sea. Which didn’t make sense. There was no ocean around Mount Lanier—not for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Edgar knew the smell of the sea, though; it was an unmistakable smell. It was something that made him miss home terribly.